Pain and Suffering: The Silver Lining
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: In retrospect, when a car is careening straight for the cab you're in, maybe shouting "Look out!" isn't the best warning. You should simply get out of the cab and out of the line of danger- Oh, wait, you can't do that? Well then, shouting "Look out!" is probably the best line of action.
1. Look Out!

**Pain and Suffering: The Silver Lining**

"Glad this case is finally over."

"What? Yes, sure, fine. Boring."

"You're already bored?" John asked, frowning. He leaned back in the seat, sighing heavily. The cab was travelling steadily back towards 221B. John couldn't be happier. He was exhausted, wanted a cuppa, and a shower, and a good, long kip.

"Mm. Yes. Of course." Sherlock was tapping away on his phone, apparently intrigued by whatever he was so absorbed in.

"I don't know where you get your energy," John muttered, sinking lower in the seat.

"Nicotine patch," Sherlock replied without looking up.

"Oh, right. Because that's so bloody physically stimulating..."

Sherlock didn't respond asides from a contemplative hum.

John had only glanced at Sherlock again because of that contemplative hum when he noticed the sleek black cab coming straight at them, straight at Sherlock's passenger side.

"Look out!"

In retrospect, it wasn't one of the best warnings.

In retrospect, he didn't know what a good warning would have been.

Their cab swerved abruptly- so his warning had been good for something, after all- a series of horns blaring and honking and tires screeching combining into one raucous cacophony.

There was the loud crash of metal-on-metal, something grating against his eardrums as the cab spun out of control. There was pain through the terror, although he couldn't distinguish from where because the cab was still _spinning_-

Until, suddenly, they weren't.

The cab to a sudden, screeching halt with more metal-on-metal grating, more tearing noises and more screeching.

There were people screaming. Horns honking. Some creaking. More voices.

John blinked hard, trying to distinguish real life past the ringing in his ears.

"Sherlock...?" he murmured, swallowing hard. He could taste blood. "Sherlock?" he tried again, raising his voice slightly.

Forcing his eyes to focus and his unreliable brain to work, John raised his gaze to look at his flatmate.

Sherlock was slumped against the door. The window was completely busted out, and there were glass shards in Sherlock's black curls. There was blood dripping down past Sherlock's hairline.

"Sherlock...?" John asked again, trying to provoke a response.

When only the screams and the honking and the ringing in his ears continued to pound at his throbbing head, John closed his eyes and gave into the darkness that was tempting him with silence.

* * *

**Jooooohhnn! D:  
(And Sherlock!)**

**I've seen a story like this already, and I imagine that there might be more, so I am in no way trying to copy the story or stories like this. I simply think the scenario is great, in the terrible sort of way that hurt!fics tend to be, and I wanted to work with the idea.**

**Any favourites or follows or reviews would be appreciated! Thank you!**


	2. Sherlock? Sherlock!

John forced his eyes open, mumbling Sherlock's name.

He had blacked out, but he couldn't have been unconscious for more than a minute.

They were still in the car, people were still milling about, chattering loudly, and Sherlock hadn't moved.

"Sherlock?" John asked. He reached across the cab, pressing his fingers against Sherlock's throat. A pulse beat reassuringly under John's fingers. John sighed quietly in relief.

He fumbled with his seatbelt. His fingers were slow and clumsy and he had to really focus on removing it. He lost a few precious seconds that he should have lost on Sherlock on his seatbelt.

"Sherlock?" he asked again, shivering as he slid across the seat. His entire body hurt. His head was pounding and his neck was aching. He had the vague impression that his entire body had been thrown forward at the impact, most likely giving John a case of whiplash, but he didn't care about that right now. He needed to see what had happened to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" he murmured, manoeuvering so he could look more closely at Sherlock. He didn't want to move him, barely dared to move at all himself just in case he jarred Sherlock's body.

His head might be hurting, but he didn't forget his medical training. Do not move the victim.

John shivered again, hard enough that he could have called it a convulsion.

"Just... calm down, John Watson," he muttered, carefully leaning forward to inspect the wound on Sherlock's head. As far as he could tell, it was just a scape from some of the glass that had busted out from Sherlock's window. A rather sizeable scrape, mind, but there was nothing else to explain where the scrape had come from.

Sherlock groaned just then, a sound barely heard over the hustle and bustle that was people outside.

(He had a moment of wondering why nobody was making to help, but people had probably already called 999 and lots of people probably didn't want to have to deal with the ramifications that could come with injury or death of an injured person. Great to be a civilian.)

"Sherlock?"

"... John...?" Sherlock blinked his eyes open, tilting his head too quickly towards John. John watched Sherlock wince in pain, a look of confusion crossing his eyes.

"No, don't move around; you need to stay still," he breathed.

He licked his lips, preparing to say something else probably unsatisfying to their circumstances. He tasted blood. Irritably, he swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. When he removed it, it was covered in blood.

He panicked a bit more than his professional mind should have allowed.

"John... your nose is bleeding..." Sherlock said, and John relaxed slightly when he realized that was the source for the blood. But all the blood...

He raised his shaking fingers to his nose gingerly. Spasms of pain erupted from the pressure and he felt the urge to vomit up everything he'd eaten in the past day.

"... Broken nose," Sherlock was saying. "Concussion..."

Sherlock was shaking. John could see his hair trembling with the motion.

"Right," John muttered, ignoring the blood. "Take deep breaths. Help'll... help'll be here soon, I'd imagine." John took a quick look out Sherlock's would-be window, blanching. He swore very loudly when he realized that the car had only come to a stop because Sherlock's side of the cab had slammed into a utility pole, thus pinning Sherlock's door shut. He looked back at his side of the cab. His door was completely smashed in, but the window was somehow still intact.

Unyielding panic swelled when he realized that they were essentially trapped in the backseat of the car.

"O-Okay." He was shaking so hard that his teeth were chattering together. He took a deep breath and set his jaw, looking back at Sherlock. "You've got a sizeable... sizeable gash on the side of your head." Oh, he was going to be sick. He swallowed hard. "Your face is cut up a bit and there's glass in your hair..."

"And you've got a concussion and a broken nose," Sherlock finished, sitting up a bit. He visibly paled.

"What's wrong?"

Sherlock shook his head, a barely noticeable motion. "Head hurts."

"You've probably got a concussion, too. We both might..." He trailed off as black spots erupted in front of his vision, the overwhelming feeling of nausea prompting him to press a hand over his mouth. He had a concussion. The nausea and the headache were a very good sign of it.

"Whiplash." Sherlock finished John's sentence as though he had already guessed what he was going to say.

John murmured an almost silent affirmative, removing his hand when he was sure that he wasn't going to vomit. The blood from his nose was doing nothing to help.

"Is this... exciting enough for you?" John griped, although only halfheartedly. John had once remarked that he preferred the James Bond lifestyle over the life of a careless civilian anyday, but this was taking it a _bit_ far.

"Never..." Sherlock replied breathlessly.

John looked back at him sharply in time to watch the detective's eyes flutter shut.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" John scrambled to make sure that his friend was still breathing, that his heart was still beating, that he was alive, because he _had to stay alive_-

"Sherlock, no, no, no, Sherlock, stay awake, mate. This isn't the time for a kip, you sodding bastard! Wake up! Sherlock? _Sherlock!_"

* * *

**This chapter probably comes across as a bit slow and sleepy, but that's just from John's mind. Time continues as normal outside of their concussive states, although not that much time has passed at all.**

**The support for this story is amazing. Keep it up. It means a lot.**


	3. Pain Threshold

**Chapter Three**

Passing out was an intriguing experience.

He was used to the sudden blackness taking his vision before he passed out. He was used to the generalized weakness that left him feeling sick and exhausted. He was used to it...

... and yet, it was different every time.

This time, there was a lot of darkness. Darkness that was all consuming and infinitely more comforting than the reality of what was happening.

The pain vanished, the sounds drowned out, and he was remotely peaceful.

_But Sherlock,_ a little voice whispered in the silence and darkness of his mind palace, _you need to be conscious. John will be worried, not to mention he's injured. Sleeping with a head injury is not a good idea, for either of you._

But, the dark peacefulness of his mind was something that he rarely got to experience. And he didn't want to give it up just yet.

It wasn't like Sherlock was at all unhappy with his mind. Because, he wasn't. He _loved_ his mind. It was the only thing that he did love, quite frankly, besides his work. As long as he had a case to solve and his brain was functioning quite correctly, there wasn't anything else he could ask for.

Solving mysteries was his life.

Solving mysteries had been his life for some time now, and it wasn't about to change.

Except, perhaps... perhaps it _had_ changed.

He had met John.

He had met John and everything had changed. He hadn't wanted it to change- everyone knew that he was perfectly happy with his life- but one domino had toppled and the chain reaction had been spectacular. The reaction, as it were, was still ongoing. It was still an experiment that was under careful consideration.

It was almost as intriguing as passing out.

_Wake up, Sherlock._

There was that nagging little voice in his head again. It sounded a lot like John.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock forced his eyes open, blinking against the light that was in such a contrast to what he had been recently experiencing. Darkness was nice, peaceful and relaxing; the light, irritating and annoying.

"Sherlock? Jeez, you-"

John was rambling. Sherlock efficiently tuned him out, trying to see past the black dots that were still trying to cloud his vision. He wanted to fall back into darkness... It was peaceful... Just- just, for now, he'd love to turn off all his senses and leave them off for a bit. Just this once.

"Sherlock?!"

Sherlock pried his eyes open again. He didn't realize that they had closed. "John, please do shut up."

"Okay, okay, you're fine. You need to breathe, Sherlock. Stay awake."

"I _am_ breathing," he retorted irritably. "It's boring."

"So you say; now look at me."

Sherlock ignored him, blinking away black spots again. The world was rocking slightly; he was getting dizzy now, too? How unimpressive.

"Sherlock!"

He finally raised his gaze to meet John's panicked one. Sherlock didn't know why he was worrying so much. John was (mostly) fine; John shouldn't be worrying. John was worrying about him, Sherlock knew, but that was stupid.

He watched the panic drift somewhat from John's gaze as he finally met the doctor's eyes.

"Just stay awake, yeah? Help'll be here soon..."

Sherlock tuned John out again, placing one of his hands flat against the seat to push himself up from the slouch he was in. He stopped moving immediately when pain, white-hot, sickening pain shot straight up from his right leg when he moved it. The pain resonated within every bone in his body and he involuntarily gasped, clenching his teeth together afterwards.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock swallowed back the urge to be sick, letting his eyes deviate to his leg. His passenger door was caved in- the cab had come to a stop against a utility pole- but had... Well, obviously something had happened, lest his leg wouldn't hurt so bad, but he couldn't remember anything happening that could have caused injury to his leg.

To be perfectly honest, he'd lost track of everything when the car started spinning. It had been...

"I'm fine," he muttered, shivering. He'd never have any broken bones before, not even a sprain. He never so much as twisted his ankle during chases in London, no matter where they took him. Pain wasn't uncommon, of course, in his profession, but this was an entirely different type of pain. Not once had he ever been so... unwilling to test his pain threshold.

"Sherlock, you've gone pale, tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing," Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes again.

"Sherlock-"

"I'm fine," he interrupted, shivering again. He was fairly sure that it wasn't particularly a cold day outside, so the shivering was irksome and thoroughly unwarranted.

And, like a good doctor should, John noticed.

"Oh hell, you're shivering. Tell me what's wrong."

"Shock," Sherlock replied absently. "Where's Lestrade with those blankets?"

"Sherlock." John was using that _tone_, the don't-argue-with-me tone.

"John," Sherlock replied petulantly, looking to the window.

"Why don't you just say what's-" John broke off suddenly. Sherlock looked back at him. John was extremely pale, the complexion of his skin a stark contrast against the blood on his face. He had his hand pressed over his mouth again.

Sherlock looked back to the broken window, shivering yet again. "Don't be ill, John, it's atrocious," he muttered, although his statement lacked conviction.

John laughed slightly in return, and, in the distance, Sherlock could hear sirens breaking the inane chatter of useless passerby.

* * *

**Ever the analytical one, Sherlock. Even when he's a bit more hurt than he actually lets on.**

**Your thoughts would be loved and appreciated like sugar cookies on Christmas. Thanks!**


	4. Wishing on a Broken Star

**Chapter Four**

There was something clearly wrong with Sherlock, but what, John didn't know. He couldn't even begin to imagine what was going through that funny head of his flatmate's right now. His own mind was barely focussing, its thought process sluggish and his movements uncoordinated. He wanted to sleep, but (besides the obvious), he didn't want to fall asleep when something was so clearly wrong with Sherlock.

The sirens in the distance spoke to John that he would be able to sleep soon, and that all of this ruckus was going to go away before long.

Sherlock's shivering was intensifying at his side, his eyes scrunched together against what John assumed was pain. He wanted to demand to know where Sherlock was hurt, but he knew Sherlock wouldn't tell him and he'd just be wasting his breath.

John struggled with his jacket for a short moment, trying to blink away black spots and fighting the urge to vomit. When he finally managed to slip it off, he struggled to place it around Sherlock's shoulders.

Sherlock looked at him slowly. "What are you doing?"

"You're in shock."

"So are you."

John shrugged a bit.

They fell silent.

When the ambulance pulled up outside their scene of collision, their sirens were so loud that it made John want to cover his ears. However, he resisted, casting a concerned gaze at Sherlock, who had slumped even lower in his seat at the headache-exploding noise.

"You'll be fine..." John murmured.

"Naturally..." Sherlock's voice lacked his usual pompous tone. John was infinitely more worried, and infinitely more glad that the ambulance was here now.

It took infinitely too long for them to get the door off the cab.

He tried to tell them to go to Sherlock, to get him first, because something was the matter with him, and all John had was a broken nose and some whiplash and shock or something. But there was something more _severely_ injured with Sherlock.

The EMTs did not listen to him.

"No, no, no, Sherlock," John babbled, trying to find his feet as they hauled him out of the car. "I can walk-" No more than saying that, he proved that he couldn't. The world swayed dangerously; he thought he was going to have to add a few scrapes and bruises due to falling onto the pavement, but he didn't fall. He did, however, give into the swirling sensation of the universe and the sickening feeling in his stomach, being violently sick for a few (too long) moments.

He heard multiple voices, although he only caught some of the snatches of the conversations around him.

"-shock, due to-"

"No doubt whiplash-"

"-the blood-"

"-pupils nonreactive-"

John squeezed his eyes shut, trying to blink away everyone's voices. Now that he didn't have the physical presence of Sherlock to focus on, he found consciousness hard to hang onto.

"Sh'lock," he muttered, blinking hard.

Somehow, he was getting strapped onto a gurney. He'd lost track of how that had happened.

"Your friend will be fine," a voice somewhere above him said.

John forced his eyes open again, looking around for the pale detective. He heard the slight intake of breath, a muffled groan that immediately attracted John's attention. Sherlock was out of the cab, but he was deathly pale in the split second that John spotted him.

He lost sight of him of them, but his heart was pounding quicker.

Sherlock didn't vocalize pain. Not until now.

_Please, God, let him live... _was the last thought in John's mind before he succumbed to the darkness.

* * *

**I cannot take credit for the final thought. I read it in a fic once, fell in love with it. **

**Thanks!**


	5. John Does Not Worry About Himself

**Chapter Five**

"You have a concussion, Dr. Watson. You need to lay _still_," the doctor said firmly, placing his hand on John's shoulder.

"No, I _need_ to find out what happened to Sherlock," John argued, trying to persuade the doctor into letting him go visit Sherlock.

There was nothing that the doctors could do for him. He had no idea _why_ he was still here. He had no idea _why_ the doctors were insisting that he stay in bed when there was nothing to be done! He was in shock, he had whiplash, he had a concussion, he had a broken nose, two of his ribs were cracked, and there was a sizeable bruise growing across his chest, but there was _nothing_ to do done. And now he was stuck in bed, while Sherlock was off who-knew-where, getting who-knew-what done. He might even be _dying_, and John knew absolutely _nothing_.

"The best thing that you can for your friend is _rest_."

"Resting isn't going to help!" John retorted.

He was angry enough to... to... well, he didn't know _what_ exactly, but he was angry enough to do it, whatever _it_ was.

His mind wasn't working like it should be. He _knew_, subconsciously, that he needed to lay still for awhile, to let his mind catch up with what was happening. He _knew_, subconsciously, that what the doctor was doing was perfectly sound and of very good practice. But, he also knew that his best friend had been _seriously_ injured, enough for him to show it, anyway, and he didn't know what kind of injuries there were. He just wanted to know. That wasn't too much to ask.

"Just rest, Dr. Watson."

John groaned, slumping back onto the pillows.

* * *

It was over an hour before John was allowed to even have the chance to visit Sherlock. When the doctor gave him leave to go visit Sherlock, John had been so eager to get out of this stuffy room that he'd completely forgotten about the shock, the whiplash, and more importantly, the concussion. He moved too fast, the nausea swelled up like a rushing wave, and he barely had the state of mind to grab the basin from the bedside table to vomit into.

The doctor seemed to give him a look that was clearly meant to be 'I told you so', even though he poured a glass of water for John afterwards.

"Can I be officially discharged, then?" John asked, taking a sip of the water. He was still much less concerned with himself than he was for Sherlock and he was by far too willing to show that, but he didn't care, for once, what people thought.

"Seeing as how we've done what we can, you can, _if_ you promise to be on your best behaviour," the doctor said sternly.

John just nodded, sliding out the bed. He'd be fine once he was by Sherlock's side.

He was very glad that no one could read his mind. People would never understand that what he had in Sherlock was by far not a romantic bond, but something much stronger than that. It wasn't romantic, but it wasn't a normal friendship, either.

Sherlock had saved his life. That's all John knew, and he wasn't going to let anything irreparable happen to the pompous consulting detective while he was around.

He rapped his knuckles lightly on Sherlock's hospital door before sliding it open. "Sherlock...?" he asked quietly, peering in.

"John...?"

Pleased that Sherlock was awake, John slipped into the room and closed the door. "You're awake."

"Mm..."

John smiled down at the pale form of Sherlock. Albeit if he was pale, and looking very much like he was fighting to stay awake.

"How're you feeling?" John asked quietly, pulling the visitor's chair close to the bedside and taking a seat.

"Medicine..." Sherlock muttered, forcing his eyes open. "They've given me medicine..."

"So, basically, you feel nothing," John supplied.

"Basically..." Sherlock murmured. He finally met John's eyes, blinking tiredly. "You're good, too...?"

"I'm fine, although I still don't know what is wrong with you. No one's told me."

"Oh..." Sherlock said, sitting up slightly. "Well." He flinched a bit as he sat up, but didn't bother to stop moving until he had sat up. "Whiplash... Shock... Stitches in my head... Concussion..." He perked up. "My leg, John. It's broken."

John blinked in surprise, looking towards the blankets concealing Sherlock's legs. "You've got a _broken leg_?"

He, wondered, briefly, how in the hell Sherlock was going to manage with a broken leg.

"Mmmhmm..."

"What medicine are you on?" he muttered, standing to grab the clipboard.

"No, no, no, John..." Sherlock drawled, snapping his eyes open again. "You have to stay..."

John blinked. "I'm just going to grab the clipboard. It's just on the end of your bed."

"Have to..." Sherlock murmured, his eyes fluttering closed again.

"What?" John muttered. He hesitated for a moment before sinking back into the chair. Finding out what medication Sherlock was on wasn't too important. He could do it later.

"Have to wake up me every few hours..." Sherlock muttered.

John didn't know what he expected. Of course Sherlock would have an addition to that sentence. He wouldn't just be telling John to stay because he _wanted_ John to stay.

He should have been used to that.

"We're going to have to sleep in shifts. I've got a concussion, too, you know," John replied, instead of pursuing the subject.

"Mm... Concussion... Broken nose... Whiplash... Shock and... three cracked ribs?" Sherlock muttered, opening his eyes again.

"Two," John corrected.

"Right..."

Sherlock searched John's eyes for a moment. John didn't know what he was looking for, but John stared back into Sherlock's ice-chip eyes unblinkingly, mirroring Sherlock's action.

"I'm glad you're okay."

John felt the back of his neck start to tingle with the warmth that was an impending blush after he said those words. Their partnership was not based on words. Their partnership had _never_ been based on words, so it was almost terrifying to accidentally say those words out loud.

And embarrassing. Definitely embarrassing.

Sherlock gave a little huff, turning his head away.

"You, too."

John thought he was hearing things, for a moment, before he realized that Sherlock's lips had actually moved with the two simple words.

John smiled to himself and, still slightly red in the face, settled back in the chair.

* * *

**This ended up being a bit more sentimental than I had planned it to be. That said, I enjoy it. Hopefully, the viewers do as well.**

**Thanks!**


	6. Accepting Assistance

**Chapter Six**

Sherlock felt like he was falling.

He did not like the feeling.

"John-"

"Just take it easy. You're trying too hard."

"I want to go home!" he protested.

Crutches. They were trying to get him used to walking with crutches.

He _hated_ the crutches.

"You can't. Not until-"

Sherlock groaned, repositioning the crutches. They were bulky and awkward and each time he took a step, he felt like he was going to fall forward.

"Can't I struggle with these at home? I have to go out in a wheelchair-" which was bad enough- "anyway, so why do I have to learn to walk with these _now_?"

John sighed heavily. Sherlock glanced up at him in time to watch John press his fingers against his eyes, rubbing them roughly. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock turned his attention back to the crutches. "I'm not good at this relying-on-something-else lark."

"It's not that hard," John replied, dropping his hands.

"How many times have you been on crutches?" Sherlock shot back.

"Once," John replied stubbornly. "I know they're irritating, but you can't stumble around without them!"

Sherlock sighed heavily, repositioning his grip on the crutches.

"Just take small steps. Don't push it until you know what you're doing."

Sherlock muttered unconstructive criticism under his breath, taking a hesitant step. He was immediately assailed by the same feeling of being off-balance, of being ready to fall on his face.

Fingers clasped onto his shoulder, holding him steady.

"Look, stop panicking."

"I'm not panicking," he replied automatically, focussing on John's voice instead of the rapid pounding of his heart.

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. John was being ridiculously sentimental. Sherlock understood the mechanics of it, the fact that they'd both been injured, so John was more protective than usual, but it made him want to vomit. He hated sentiment.

"What would happen to me?" he replied brusquely, although he didn't step out of the way of John's grip. Sentiment asides, John was a support that Sherlock wasn't totally sure that he didn't want (or need).

"I could let you fall on your face, which, at this point, I'm fairly sure would be really uncomfortable."

Sherlock snorted slightly.

"Let's try this again, shall we?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded absently.

* * *

It took Sherlock ten minutes to get the hang of limping about the room with the crutches. It took John's hand against his back for most of the time before he was comfortable enough with the infernal equipment, but now he was limping towards the nurses' station to sign out.

"Sherlock, you can just give it up," John was saying. "It's hospital protocol to leave in a wheelchair, especially considering the extent of our injuries."

"It's just whiplash and shock," Sherlock replied, unsteadily stopping in front of the nurses' station. "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," he said before looking down at John. "You look ridiculous."

John had already succumbed to hospital protocol and was watching Sherlock from the enclosure of a wheelchair.

"Says the one stumbling about on crutches."

Sherlock huffed, leaning against the desk to sign the release forms.

"You're going to have to endure the wheelchair, too."

"No."

"Yeah, you will."

Sherlock argued against it, but his head was pounding, his arms were starting to ache from the repeated limping around, and he felt oddly exhausted for having woken up not long ago. It didn't take him long to give into the doctor's demands; he felt like an idiot, helpless and weak, but it was less hassle.

By the point that their cab pulled up outside of Baker Street, the pain medication that had been administered was wearing off. Sherlock vaguely felt like he was going to be sick, from the pain, and he wanted to get to the couch and fall asleep.

Unfortunately, there were two staircases to go through before he could even get upstairs.

He stared at the stairs, eyes narrowed slightly. It couldn't be that bad.

"Come on," John said, "It won't take long."

Incidentally, it _did_ take long.

Sherlock was sweating and shaking by the time that he stumbled into the sitting room. One leg- the one that wasn't broken- felt completely like jelly and the other- the one that was broken- felt like it was on fire. He'd bumped it more than once on the stairs; each time brought tears of pain to his eyes before he blinked them away in irritation.

John had been next to him the entire time, and was behind him now, prompting him to keep moving even though he wanted to collapse to the floor.

"Come on... come on..." John muttered. "Give me the crutches."

Sherlock handed them over without a word, leaning against the door frame.

"Put your arm around me," John ordered. Sherlock looked at him wearily. "Around my shoulders. Come on."

Sherlock hesitantly placed his arm around John's shoulders, trying not to flinch when John wrapped his arm around his waist.

"Lean on me."

Sherlock promptly ignored him, trying to limp to the couch. From the lack of support, he lost his balance quickly. He tightened his grip on John's shoulders as John quickly snaked his arm around his waist.

"Stop it! Just stop. Let me help," John said. His tone was angry and Sherlock could hear the annoyance just oozing from his tone.

Swallowing back nausea and closing his eyes, he leaned against John slightly. His body, however, took the support much more literally than Sherlock's mind had expected and he slumped entirely against John, causing the doctor to stumble.

"You just can't do anything halfway, can you..." John muttered, tightening his grip. "Okay. Come on. Let's get you back to bed..."

Sherlock very nearly complained, but, since John was there, he knew that he would, in the long run, be alright.

* * *

**Crutches and Sherlock do not mix. No running after criminals for you, Lockie!**

**Your thoughts, as ever, are lovely; I would love to hear them! Thanks!**


	7. Sentiment?

**Chapter Seven**

Sherlock yawned widely.

"Look, just go to sleep," John murmured, leaning back in the chair.

"I don't wanna sleep while you're watching me... it's... weird," Sherlock retorted.

"Sherlock, you're exhausted. And _I'm_ exhausted, but in case you forgot, we barely got out of the hospital so soon, anyway. Thanks to your... brother," John muttered, "and us saying that Mrs. Hudson would keep an eye on us, we managed to, but since you refuse to let Mycroft into the flat and don't want Mrs. Hudson hovering about-" and John couldn't say that he was upset about either option- "you're going to have to deal with it."

Sherlock groaned, drawing his arm over his eyes.

"I'll be quiet," John said.

"No, you won't," Sherlock replied. "Why do you have to sit there, anyway? Go... Go write a blog or something!"

"I might, but not right now. Now, stop fighting the medication and _go to sleep_."

Sherlock sighed heavily, removing his arm from his eyes only to grab the blankets and wrench them over his head.

John sighed also, wishing he'd grabbed himself an ice pack for his nose. He had a terrible headache and the medication he'd taken had long since wore off. He wasn't going to leave Sherlock's side right now, however, partially because he told Sherlock that he wasn't going anywhere right now, but mostly because he was worried about the consulting detective.

And John understood, all too well, that there was nothing to be done for the consulting detective right now. Sherlock was going to have to rely on crutches, medication (which John wasn't wholly happy about), and John himself. And Sherlock was just going to have to realize that, no matter how long it took for the barmy detective to see that.

Despite that, John couldn't bring himself to leave Sherlock's side. Perhaps after the detective fell asleep...

"John."

John looked towards the blankets were Sherlock was hiding. "Hm?"

"Please... stop _thinking_."

John smiled faintly. "Sorry."

"If you have to sit and... supervise me... please don't think about me, also."

"Well, considering the events of today, I can't exactly _not_ think about you, Sherlock."

Sherlock seemed to huff, although he didn't resurface from the blankets, so John couldn't be sure.

"So..." John murmured, "let's not do that again, okay?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock sounded half asleep.

"The... car wreck. Let's not do that again."

"It wasn't my fault," Sherlock said, sounding defensive.

"I didn't say it was."

"You were implying."

"I was not."

"Your tone sounded like you were..."

"Well, I wasn't. I'm just saying... Not a very good day..."

"Could be worse."

"With you, yes, but hopefully not."

"No..."

"What?"

Sherlock sighed, seeming to curl up under the blankets. "No, let's not do that again... Honestly John, for telling me to rest, you talk an awful lot."

John blinked before smiling faintly. "Good. I thought that maybe you'd say you were measuring the extent of injuries based on different cabs or different scenarios or... something."

"I can do that with police reports..."

"Right, just look through old automobile reports... I didn't think of that."

"Of course you didn't," Sherlock muttered. He finally folded the blankets back, appearing from underneath them. He looked pale and exhausted. "Now do please shut up."

"Goodnight to you, too, Sherlock," John replied.

Silence followed and John thought that Sherlock was finally following the advice (albeit if John did delay the detective's rest with a conversation). He wondered why he didn't pick up a book, along with an ice pack, so he could have something to entertain himself with.

"John...?"

John blinked, looking back at Sherlock again. "Huh?"

"... It's not night-time..."

"... Right. Good afternoon, then."

Sherlock's lips twitched towards a smile. "Thanks..."

John leaned back in his chair, smiling faintly. He wondered if he was the only one who heard the double meaning behind that word. "You're welcome."

* * *

**And this is how Pain and Suffering: The Silver Lining concludes! Thank you all for following the story! I appreciate every favourite and follow and the reviews so much! I hope you enjoyed this story. =3**

**Thank you!**


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